


Ms Doyle and Dr. Forsythe

by peanootzramano



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fetish, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanootzramano/pseuds/peanootzramano
Summary: "It's no secret that gathering intel is the thing you loathe most about your job." In which Hoxton and Clover have some fun while casing the location for their next big heist.





	Ms Doyle and Dr. Forsythe

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written, in first person, from Hoxton's point of view. It's not a method I normally use when writing - but the story was requested by a friend of mine who always plays Hoxton so I thought it might be best to cater more to him. Normally I write about Jacket and a Payday OC of mine so any and all feedback would be apreciated!

It's no secret that gathering intel is the thing you loathe most about your job. Obviously, you’re more than familiar with making a fucking beast of a crime map, extending pieces of frayed ribbon from ugly mug to hastily drawn blueprints and right back again. But you work on a basis of receiving information from others – whomever had been stupid enough to piss Bain the fuck off that week – one wayward bullet into the skull of a limp civilian or missions not strictly adhered to. You’re never the moron on the floor. Not until now.

You get caught having sex in the safehouse bathroom one time… 

The halogen bulbs overhead leave an imprint of flickering shapes behind your lashes every time you blink, reflected forth onto the faux plastic frames nudged in against the bridge of your nose. Your hands comb distractedly through the gel scraped neatly over your temple; the overwhelming scent of artificial coconut clinging to calloused fingertips. The undersized loafers Bain has you wearing skid and scuffle and squeak with every step forward, a dreadful noise which frays and frays at your sensitive nerves. Yet, the sound becomes almost entirely diluted underneath the light repetitive clicking of Clover’s acute heels on sterilized linoleum. 

No, not Clover. Deidre. Ms. Deidre Doyle. And you are Dr. Simon Forsythe. Names are of vast importance here.

Beneath powdered moustache and crooked teeth, voice full of caffeine and synthetic energy, the heavy-set man beside you grunts; creased fingertips tapping out a restricted code on a system far too superior for your agitated mind to fathom. 

“This is our… special laboratory. Where we keep our most advanced equipment. I hope you’ll find the work we do highly creditable and, furthermore, investible.”

You resist against the brittle bitter scoff tickling inside your throat at how overwhelmingly rehearsed this man sounds, misdirected hope decorating every perfectly timed vowel.

‘Diedre’ speaks for you, her rich accent igniting a certain rosy hue on the wrinkled man’s dusty cheeks. “Speaking for both myself and Dr. Forsythe, we foresee vast potential in your astrophysics programme, Sir.” Her hands smooth down the front of her skirt, skin-tight velvet painted across her thighs in a jade as vibrant as the mischief in her eyes. “And if this equipment is as stellar as you promised via our correspondence, well, I see no reason not to donate as wealthily as possible.”

The old bastard practically squeals for joy, and you can envision those arthritic fingers coiling around his own fictional pigtails as he murmurs and nods to portray his eagerness. Something white-hot twists within your abdomen, razor-sharp and with spines which release a rather potent poison; that searing heat of jealousy you’re all too familiar with.

“Yeah,” You bite swiftly. “What she said.”

Unphased by the sharpness of your tone, your guide starts toward his confidential laboratory, the lateness of the twilight-dipped hour having cleared all personnel from appearing at their stations. You are met with nothing more than the haunting whirr of heavy machinery and the iridescence of neon lights twinkling their signal of life. However, ‘Deidre’ is quick to synchronize her steps with yours, the acute angle of her elbow striking you once in your ribs – an abrupt warning, an unspoken demand to b e h a v e.

Gasp. Breathe. Hold. You’d be a fool not to obey. 

At least for now.

A cough akin to jostled gravel, or perhaps foil being suddenly contorted, rips you from your momentary trance as your guide leads you toward the largest machine in the room. An imposing contraption constructed from textured metal and littered with intricate dials and switches you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. A whistle rattles against your lips, sharp and tight, and piercing against the otherwise dull air.

 

“How much is this bad boy worth, then?” Your fingers dip inside your inner pocket, tips grazing flocked velvet and silk - why not splurge in your line of employment? – to pluck free a notepad and pen; even the way you c l i c k the top is overwhelmingly cocky. “If we’re talkin’ rough ballpark.”

 

“Oh, well. It’s impossible to say, really. Somewhere in the 3-4 million range, I would assume. This machine is exclusive to our facility.”

 

Your penmanship is atrocious - that warm sensation within your stomach is not. A tantalizing tingle readying for what’s to come.

 

‘Deidre’ brushes her shoulder against yours, just once, a movement ripe with communication; there’s a fire in her eyes, golden flames lapping hungrily across her lashes. It’s a sight you l i v e for.

 

“Of course. With a piece of machinery this beautiful, and with all the vigorous work your employees are doing here, I’m confident we could double that amount via our donations. Wouldn’t you say so, Dr. Forsythe?” Cherry-kissed lips spinning lies of pure crystal.

Your brow threatens to quirk. “Absolutely, Ms. Doyle.” 

You extend a palm toward the man before you, his lips parting slowly to salivate words of unkempt glee, his wrinkled fingertips grazing your discoloured knuckles in a handshake which seals a deal in an instant. Confirms a charitable donation with absolutely no strings attached. None at al-

Suddenly, the device attached to the old man’s hip begins to beep and bleat and chirp with life. His lungs expanding to release small stutters of surprise. 

Right on cue. Nice work, Bain.

“My apologies. It would appear I have a call waiting for me back in my office.” Droplets scattered across his sandy forehead, steps tripping backwards. “Do excuse me. When I return, I’ll hand you the forms to sign and we should be all set.”

‘Deirdre’ curtseys politely on his retreat. You taste your own smirk.

All alone in this big, cold laboratory with just your restless hands and a pair of exquisite honeycomb legs. T e m p t a t i o n sure is a cruel mistress. 

“Thank fuck, the fucker’s finally gone,” ‘Deidre’ sighs, a lilt of pure, uncensored C l o v e r returning to her voice. Unkempt flames prickling on the forefront of crimson lips.

Her fingers are quick, deft, where they dip into the inside of her blouse to pull her cell phone from within the pretty pink lace of her bra (a beautiful frilly push-up number you purchased for her, no less. With any luck, the matching thong has been sweetly hidden between those dreamy, pale, and wonderfully toned thighs of hers). With a swipe of her finger and the balance of her palms she trains her camera on the largest machine taking pride of place in the centre of the room. The shutter makes a click so loud that the utterance snaps you from your lewd fantasies of teeth on freckled flesh and fingers beautifully entwined. 

Right. Intel. Information on the equipment. Readying up for a heist. Got it.

Still, there is something utterly captivating about the fragility of her feet balancing in those tall, suede heels. How glossy lips purse with authoritative concentration. The insatiable hunger reverberating throughout her soul; desperate for the euphoria only anarchy can bring. Your girl is a pure masterpiece like this – taken by the job and what limitless potential it brings. 

You’d be a fool to resist; and if there’s one thing you’re not it’s a bloody fool.

Your approach is deliberately slow, calculated, a balanced waltz on designer brogues (a cosmetic purchase you absolutely did not need – but Hex can be quite… persistent… when it comes to matters of fashion), which leads you toward long amethyst locks and the swell of an ass almost too voluptuous for the skirt which contains it. You grab yourself an eager handful and, without hesitation, sink yourself in against the beautiful concave of her spine. She gasps sweetly, the phone in her hands threatening to clatter unceremoniously against sterile flooring.

“Wh-What’re you doing?” A voice like honey, frayed across the edges in pure unrestrained b l i s s. “Rumpelstiltskin is bound t’be on his way back shortly.”

“So? Let ‘im come.” Pointed teeth emboss pretty patterns across the plush of her lobe, eliciting another full-body shudder to overwhelm her body. She places her phone down with certitude; acceptance of her fate at the hands of a man known for taking (in all aspects of the word). “I want every bit of you that I can get my hands on, Miss Doyle.”

The goosebumps which bloom prettily on her throat are utterly tantalizing. Electric. A perfect counterpart to the rush of breath sucked abruptly into her lungs. You could listen to that sweet sound of compliance and resignation all day long.

If you weren’t so desperate to consume her from the inside out. 

Her spine hits against immobile machinery with a delicious thud, her skirt pushing up across curved hips by the pressure of your rough thumbs tracing across patches of fuchsia filigree as you wrench her panties down toward slender ankles. She knows to keep her stilettos on – to balance forth on painted toes while you press your fingertips into the dampness of your mouth and suck your knuckles until they are drenched. ‘Deidre’ uses manicured cuticles to spread her cunt open; folds of silk and sin opening before your very eyes. 

Oh how quickly she settles into her role as a wet-lipped whore.

You fall to your knees on grotty tile, tongue pressed beyond scarred lips as you lick an eager stripe across her saccharine cunt; revelling in the way her fingers knot into fists against your scalp and her knees wobbling with the pressure of keeping upright. You devour her as eagerly as you can, with your lips smacking audibly over her beautifully swollen clit and the wetness which coats your chin making your tongue tingle. Her howls coat porcelain teeth – ricocheting decibels – ringing in your ears and across insulated tubing and metallic coils. A sexy sonnet sung for your soul.

You wait until you can feel her tiptoeing along the precipice of orgasm. Her toes are pointed within skyward heels. Her fingertips leave hieroglyphics against the natural curve of your spine. You sign your name within heat and flesh and retreat only when you are certain she is ready to erupt; a collision of celestial glitter bursting from within.

“Fuck you!” She gasps on your retreat, smothering scarlet lip beneath crooked teeth. Her eyes flash reptilian bright – lubricated scales swirling around her iris in absolute frustration.

Ever the man to please, you hesitate not in pulling your cock free from your pants. Dark skin swells within decorated palms as you caress yourself – squeeze grip g a s p. Pleasure nestles throughout slender veins from the mere application of friction alone. You hook your thumb around the vibrancy of your head simply to stem the flow of glistening precum which beads there. 

“Be a good girl, Deidre,” You growl, tongue pressing over your teeth. “Come get Daddy’s cock and maybe I’ll let you cum.”

Fortunately, her desperation is wholly transparent, for she scurries forward with her pout in full bloom. She bends over herself, spine perfectly angular as she raises her ass into the air as high as possible. Her flesh is impossibly round and poised – picturesque handlebars which swell and morph underneath the pressure of your ravenous fingertips. You squeeze entire galaxies over her flesh. Painting porcelain in lavender and amethyst and all those beautiful hues located between. 

‘Deidre’ is so unbelievably wet that your cock makes entry with minimum effort – hot, tight walls clenching against the entirety of your length; wordless approval. You fuck her with enough momentum to have opalescent palms clawing for purchase against sheets of titanium. Like a banshee whose lungs have been sliced open, she is a goddess who screams your borrowed name amidst a raw throat.

Skin slaps skin.  
Heels ricochet on shimmering tile.  
Breaths become an incantation throughout sterile walls.

She is yours for the taking – a fact you make her well aware of when you tug insistently at velveteen locks until her throat bleeds garnet and her orgasm tears from her before she can squeal an apology across chapped lips. You flood her insides so fully that ribbons of cum spill down porcelain thighs and over the toes of those exquisite designer heels.

She doesn’t have to ask before you are on your knees once more, tender bone, your tongue lapping luxurious tendrils over polished leather to thoroughly cleanse her. You have to make her pristine again.

Perhaps gathering intel was not as atrocious as you originally thought.


End file.
